


On a Cold Winter's Night

by RileyC



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:41:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in Paris, and Methos has had enough of winter. The question is, will he have to seek warmer climes by himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Cold Winter's Night

_Le Blues Bar, Paris; Christmas Eve_

“So?” Methos inquired with studied indifference.

“So?” Duncan MacLeod looked at him over the top of the Christmas card.

Methos sighed, didn't quite roll his eyes. “What do the Valincourts have to say?”

“Not much.” Tilting the card to catch the light better, he said, “They wish us both a merry Christmas, and say there's a standing invitation to come visit them in Jamaica.”

Thinking of Jamaica - sandy beaches, basking in the warm, warm sun - Methos cast a look out the windows, at the cold, drifting snow, and shuddered violently. “Let's accept.”

“Let's not.”

Now Methos did roll his eyes. “I'm tired of being cold, MacLeod.” Five thousand winters ought to be enough for anyone.

Chestnuts roasting on roaring fires aside, everything about this season reminded him of the cold, even the songs. Even Joe Dawson's bluesy rendition of _The First Noel_ wasn't warming his ancient bones. It was good, though, he had to admit that much. Slouched down in his chair, he listened to the music, thinking of cold winter's nights that were so deep, and shivering again.

Too soon, the song was over, and Dawson looked like he was packing it in for the night.

“You two have somewhere to go?” Dawson said, coming over to their table, leaning on his cane.

“You kicking us out, Joe?” MacLeod said.

“Yeah,” Methos chimed in, “we're your best customers.”

“Yeah, well, best customers, I've got a plane to catch to Geneva.”

“Ah,” Methos said, exchanging a look with MacLeod. “Give our love to Amy.”

“Will do. Now - about getting your butts out of here?”

“Leave us the keys, we'll lock up for you.”

MacLeod rolled his eyes at that one.

“Drink me out of business, you mean. Go on,” Dawson gestured with his cane, “go loaf around somewhere else.”

“Loaf?” Methos said, trying to stir up some indignation but falling a bit short and landing more in the vicinity of crotchety old coot. “There was a time a household would have tripped over themselves to fete me,” he said darkly. “That's the trouble with you kids today: no respect for your elders.”

Dawson rolled his eyes this time, and poked him with the cane. “Go on, get, vamoose.”

“I'm going, I'm going.” Getting to his feet and shrugging into his coat, Methos stalked over to the door, thinking about catching his own plane out of here. Spending the winter on a barge parked in the Seine was not his idea of a wonderful time. Only a mad Highlander would even think of it.

At the door, he paused to look back at said Highlander, deep in conversation with Dawson. What were they conspiring about now? he wondered, eyes narrowed as he watched them looking over at him. Dawson asked something, MacLeod nodded; they embraced for a moment, saying their farewells. He couldn't say why, but Methos got the distinct impression the send-off was for longer than a holiday weekend.

Impatient, and feeling a bit left out, he went on outside, shoulders hunching up against the first icy blast of cold. Tahiti, he thought; maybe he'd head for Tahiti, pass a few decades lounging about, maybe pick up a paint brush and see if he remembered any of the techniques he'd passed along to Gauguin…

“Adam!”

He felt MacLeod's presence a split second before the Highlander called his name, and stopped under a streetlight, waiting for him to catch up.

They walked on quietly, steps inevitably turning in the direction of the barge. Methos couldn't mind, not really, not when it felt so easy. He had taken this for granted, this comfort of being around MacLeod. When he'd lost it, he had believed it gone forever. Having found the rhythm again, better this time because the worst that could happen was past, could he really walk away again?

Paused on the quay, looking at the barge, lights on and welcoming, he didn't have to search hard for the answer.

“MacLeod--“

“Merry Christmas.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Merry Christmas,” MacLeod repeated. “Got you something,” he said, drawing an envelope from his coat and holding it out.

Eyeing it suspiciously, Methos said, “What is it?”

“Open it.”

He opened it, stared, not believing. “Airline tickets…”

“To Bora Bora.” MacLeod hunched his own shoulders against the chill off the water. “I hear it's nice this time of year.”

Nodding absently, Methos double checked to be sure. “There's two.”

“Thought you might like some company.”

“Company would be good, yeah. How long?” he asked, remembering that goodbye at the bar, how he'd gotten the idea it was for more than a couple of days.

“As long as you want, as long as we need,” MacLeod said, looking at him.

Methos exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh, watched it turn to mist on the frigid air. “MacLeod, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Tugging on the lapels of his coat, MacLeod drew him closer. “With benefits?”

“Oh yes,” he said, burrowing close, soaking up warmth. “Let's go now.”

“Right now?” MacLeod said, clearly not quite prepared for that.

“Yes, right now, before…”

MacLeod traced a finger along Methos' face. “Before what?”

He shook his head, feeling stupid about voicing it -- the vision that popped into his head, of MacLeod going out in the morning for a quart of milk and never coming back, because an Immortal stepped out of a doorway and caught MacLeod unprepared.

“Indulge me,” he said, “just this once.”

MacLeod gave him a skeptical look. “ _Just_ this once?”

“Mac…”

Sobering, studying him, MacLeod nodded. “Tonight it is.”

“I'll make it worth your while.”

“Oh,” MacLeod reeled him in close again, “I'm counting on that,” he said, just before their lips met.

~*~

Lounging in a hammock strung between two tall palm trees, looking out across the water at at Mount Otemanu, silhouetted against a crystal blue sky, Methos sighed and said, “It's too hot.”

MacLeod rolled his eyes, removed the last two beers from the bucket of ice and dumped the contents over him.

the end


End file.
